


Johnlock Oneshots (with a side of Mystrade and Jimlock)

by everettist



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Murder, You dont need tags, you know sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 04:49:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29344644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everettist/pseuds/everettist
Summary: A series of Sherlock oneshots inspired by different scenarios I've imagined.
Relationships: Angelo/Mrs. Hudson (Sherlock), Mary Morstan/John Watson, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Kudos: 4





	Johnlock Oneshots (with a side of Mystrade and Jimlock)

Dead.  
Sherlock had been dead before, of course, this was far from his first dance with the devil. There was a slight difference between this and the last, however.

Last time, it was all a lie. His death had been the magic trick, but now – now he was dying for real, all because of another bloody trick, another lie. No one had been able to lie to him before, those that had tried had utterly failed; but not Mary.

She had him fooled. She had them all fooled.

Doubting his own senses would have to come later, though – right now, he had to focus on keeping himself alive. An odd notion, really, considering he cared little to naught about his own life, but he was neither one for irony. His one and only vow was to spend the rest of his life protecting the Watsons and their unborn child. Should Mary Watson be the sole reason he could never fulfil that vow – well, he’d never let himself live it down. 

There were voices, of course, there were always voices, any time he was in danger. Recounting anything they’d ever taught him about this before. He’d been shot many a time, though never with such precise aim – for the first time, he couldn’t be sure if a vital organ had been hit, and for once, he would have to listen to those voices.

“It’s not like in the movies,” Molly had told him. “There’s no big splash of blood, you don’t fly back from the impact. It’s quick, and you’re going to fall. Which way, Sherlock?”

His eyes squeezed shut on impulse.

“Your mind palace, it’s impressive, but you’ve only got three seconds of consciousness to use it. Which way do you fall?”

“Forwards, or backwards, I can’t–”

“How many holes are there?”

In such a pressing time, it was truly no surprise he was still able to give Anderson a disapproving glare from within his head. “What?”

“Is there an exit hole? That’ll depend on the type of gun used.”

“No, it’s not about the gun.” If Anderson was not an annoying enough voice to hear on his deathbed, then Mycroft was sure to take the crown. “What was behind you when you were shot?”

He tried his very hardest to visualise the room he was in, everything having gone rather black in his time.

“A– a...mirror. The mirror would have shattered if it left my body–”

“So there’s no exit wound.” Molly concluded. “The bullet is still in you, it’s acting as a cork, a stopper that’s keeping you from bleeding out.”

“Any impact or force on the entrance wound could dislodge it and, as much as I would like to see it happen, I don’t think I could handle feeling responsible for your death once again.” Anderson chimed. “So fall backwards.”  
“Do it Sherlock, fall on your back!”

He did so, reality flashing back for a second as his body hit the ground with a violent thud, head narrowly missing the skirting board – curse him and his unusually long legs.

“Now, the shock will kill you instead. You need to stop yourself going into shock.”

He glared at Molly’s translucent form, helpful as ever. “And how the hell am I supposed to do that?”

“Think of something happy, something from your childhood. Not something that you have right now, you’ll become afraid of losing it and that will worsen the shock.”

Childhood, childhood. Mycroft was a no-go, whether because he purely despised the man, or he was afraid, he could not be sure. His parent’s, lacking the hatred, were a similar case, and he found his mind desperately traversing the halls of his palace, searching for something to grip onto, to keep him grounded.

But soon he was there, bounding down an adjacent corridor, reddish long fur and a dopey doggish grin on his face – redbeard. Oh, redbeard, never had he been gladder to see that poor old dog again, one he had damn near forgotten about after all these years. He lowered to his knees, happily opening his arms for the mutt to jump into them, smothering him with all his might, and Molly’s voice was back again.

“Without the shock, you’re going to feel the pain. You need to control it, Sherlock. Control the pain, don’t let it overwhelm you, no matter what happens.”

He barely caught her final words, a falling sensation overtaking him despite his fall certainly already occurring, having felt quite harshly the impact of the ground. His fall instead was now met with a more cushioned, though entirely unpleasant, flooring, unable to grasp where he was for a moment – not until that spine-chilling chuckle filled his ears.

“Your fairytale’s coming to an end, Sherlock.” He spoke, and in death his tongue still held the venom of a thousand snakes. “All of em do. It’s a shame, really, that I didn’t get to do it again – would have loved to relive that. Ah, but we do only get one life, don’t we?”

“Mine’s not done yet.”

“Oh Sherly, it is! But don’t worry, John’ll be sure to tell your story. He always does. What do you think he’ll call it? Angel of Death, maybe, that is what they called you. Or perhaps, more sentimental, ‘The Death of an Angel.’ Oh, or perhaps The End of an Era. That is what good old Mrs Hudson said, right?”

“How would you know that?”

Moriarty stifled a laugh. “I know everything you know, Sherlock. I am you, remember?”

“Then you should know, I won’t die.”

“Ah, ah, ah!” He jeered. “You don’t know that yet. But, let’s say you did. My, how Mrs Hudson would cry. I shouldn’t be surprised if that detective inspector friend of yours resigned, he truly is hopeless without you. Why, and big brother Mycroft! Oh, how distraught he would be. He does love you, really, and I know that because you know that.”

“A few people crying? You really are trying to convince me death is better.” Sherlock was bemused, an emotion he did not experience often. “I’m not feeling very inspired to stay alive.”

Moriarty tugged at the restraints of his straitjacket, failing to get any closer to the man lain on the ground, no matter how hard he tried. The living were still stronger than the dead – even on the precipice. 

“Mary had a little lamb, Sherlock. That lamb, your dear Watson – why, he’s in danger. Terrible, terrible danger.”

“Mary would never hurt John.”

“Oh, no no no,” Moriarty giggled, throwing his head back against the wall. “Of course not, of course! Mary would never. But Mary, Mary, Mary! She is just like you. Can take a life, but ever so bad at saving them.”

“She’s saving mine.”

“No, no, you don’t listen, you never listen!” He snapped. “The last time you died, Mary was there to save John, you see? Not from me, of course – but himself! You really are as dumb as everyone else, you’re normal, you’re boring.”

“..what on Earth are you trying to tell me?”

“If Mary kills you, how is she ever going to save John Watson again?”

Sherlock’s blood (or what he had left) ran cold. “Why are you saying this?”

“Because–” Jim drawled, rolling his head a few times. “As much as I’d love to keep you here forever, I do need you to live. Just a little longer, is all. A year or two, and I’ll still be here with open arms, Sherly.”

He’d forced himself to his feet at last, hand clutching his side as he observed the heavy-set door in the padded cell. “What makes you think I’ll come back?”

Moriarty could all but smile. “No one can outrun death, Sherlock. I couldn’t, and neither could you.”

“You ran face-first into it.”

“As will you, when the time comes.” Jim smiled. “But not now, now you have to shoo, go – ah, go save your damsel in distress before he has a reason to stick himself in here with me, would you? I could handle eternity with you, but definitely not him. He’s too….boring.”

Sherlock could only muster a grimace as he gave one final glance to Moriarty.  
“Fuck you.”

“….lock. Sherlock! Sherlock, can you hear me? Are you awake?”  
His eyes fluttered open to a sight he was most thankful for – John Watson, crouched beside him and staring over him with the upmost concern. He tried to muster words, though it was rather hard due to the excruciating pain in his abdomen.

“Jesus Christ, what happened to him?” John barked, and though Sherlock’s skin crawled at the very sound, he had no choice but to listen as Magnussen informed him he had been shot. John scowled further, moving the younger’s coat aside to see his blood-soaked shirt. “Fucking – I gotta call an ambulance. Sherlock, just keep your eyes on me, okay? You’re going to be okay, just keep your eyes open.”

It pained him to keep them wide, but after the words Moriarty had spoken to him, he feared to take them off of John for a moment. He knew that Moriarty himself was long gone, and all he had become was the embodiment of his subconscious; all the fears he stored away, tried to delete yet had always failed. 

For once in his life, he was scared. Not for himself, but for John Watson.  
He was scared of losing him.  
Scared of leaving him.  
Sherlock Holmes,  
was scared.


End file.
